Cry
by KimiruMai
Summary: He fought valiantly. Mirai timeline.


**I cried writing this. **

**DBZer16, your story Dead Eyes inspired this, so thank you. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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**Cry**

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It wasn't like he hadn't fought.

If anyone ever had the nerve to say that to her, she would not hesitate to fly at them with full intention to rip out their throats. He _did_ fight. He fought valiantly, bravely. He knew he didn't have a chance, but he fought.

It had been a simple outing, a trip to the grocery store or something of that nature. He had insisted on accompanying her…the streets weren't safe nowadays. She had been surprised…he wasn't normally one to spend time with her on errands, even if he had softened to her and his son in the past year.

It wasn't his fault that the androids didn't need Ki to sense you. He had hidden his Ki until it was nearly the equivalent of a mouse. He had been skilled at those types of things.

But they didn't need a Ki signature. Why should they, when they had DNA sensors? She had never given much thought to such a thing…it was too difficult to program a person's gene code into a machine, especially on a mass scale. But he had fought them before, and he hadn't ever come away unscathed. They had tasted his blood, licked it from their fingers. They were like children, the Androids. They wanted playthings, toys to break. And now that Goku had died of the virus, the next most amusing plaything would be Vegeta.

He had despised hiding from them, but he wasn't stupid. A single beat-down from the twin terrors had shown him how hopelessly outclassed he was. But he refused to be beaten forever. He had begun to train. It had showed, she noticed appreciatively, how hard he worked. His body was flawless, his Ki growing every day.

But it wasn't enough.

He had frozen, his breath caught in his throat, and when she stopped to stare at him quizzically he grabbed her arm. He told her to go home.

Frowning, she asked why. He shook her, telling her, stupid woman, stop asking foolish questions. Go home, do as I say.

She refused, unless he would tell her why.

An explosion in the distance was her answer. Immediately tears brimmed in her eyes, and she shook her head fiercely. Never, she'd never leave him.

He nearly crushed her in his arms, breathing in her scent one last time, his fingers in her hair and around her waist. A sob racked her small shoulders as her tears soaked his broad ones. Even through his armor, she swore she felt his heartbeat.

He kissed her once, gently and innocently, something unusual for him, and pushed her in the direction of home. Go.

She studied his face once, memorizing his features and the fearlessness in his dark eyes, and she fled.

She was halfway home when the explosions got to close, and she had to duck for cover. The buildings shook and rumbled; she tripped, and the ceiling of what had been her shelter caved. When she opened her eyes, the sun had sunk, and the town was quiet.

She pushed the broken debris off her, felt blood trickle down the side of her face. She coughed and swatted dust from her clothes, and left the fallen building.

It was still quiet.

Her eyes remained dry, even when she found herself on the street near the grocery store, the last place she had touched him. She stopped and looked around…the store was gone, nothing but a pile of cinders and bricks, as was most of her surroundings. She walked further and saw dark blue in a pile of ash. Her heart clenched, and her feet moved of their own accord.

His eyes were closed, and she was glad, because she couldn't bear it if she had seen the always fire filled orbs dulled and empty. His blood was painted over his white armor, marred with cracks and burns, the blue spandex of his suit torn and shredded. Blood was caked in his hair near his temple, almost a match of her own wound, and some had trailed to his neck from his mouth.

She didn't believe it, not until she had reached for him, touched his face, felt no warmth in his skin. She started to cry.

She heard footfalls come close and stop, and a soft murmur of a young boy saying, my God, it can't be. The remaining fighters were silent.

On her knees in the dirt beside him, she felt heavy tears fall easily. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him up, hating the limpness of his body. She cried into his shoulder and threaded her fingers in his black hair, and when she couldn't hold him up any longer, she put his head in her lap.

Her thumb fluttered over slightly parted lips, and no breath rose up to meet her hand. She grasped his head and shoulders and crushed him to her chest. Her sobs had been quiet, too choked to be loud. She smoothed his hair and felt herself rocking, back and forth, dragging him with her. She pressed mouth to his forehead, and a wail surfaced from her throat. It was enough to send chills down the spines of the others, whose presence she had ignored.

"Vegeta," she murmured, almost silently. Her voice rose into a scream when she repeated his name, and he did not answer her.

Her Prince was dead.


End file.
